The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (43 page)

I was struck by the grim expression on old Dominee Molenkamp’s face as he stepped into the pulpit. He laid his hands on the wooden rail. His grip tightened, and I saw his knuckles whiten. He squared his shoulders and opened his mouth. I was so distracted by the iciness of his attitude that I missed the opening sentences of his eulogy. Then I realized what was missing: there were no smiles. I looked round. All the faces looked equally grim. It was not that I myself had felt even the merest glimmer of relief at Kwame’s death, let alone any elation, but the atmosphere of gloom suddenly struck me as utterly heartless. I raised my eyes and glimpsed my friend perching on one of the pediments in the transept. His legs were flung wide and his torso swayed to an inaudible rhythm. This fleeting vision softened my pain. For one happy instant I was elated. Then Molenkamp’s words sank into my brain.

There was a note of indignation in his voice. As though he had suffered a personal injustice. The text he had chosen was “The apostles sent forth to spread the Gospel.” He reminded his audience sanctimoniously of his intention to send us out into the world as missionaries, “as Christ sent the apostles, two by two.” Prince Quame, he said, had refused to take this path. Although he deserved praise for his dedication to his religious studies, it had been proved beyond a doubt that the prince’s faith had been too weak, his old mistaken beliefs too stubborn. Alas, hell awaits those who commit suicide, the dominee seemed to be saying, for he shook his head violently and told us to pray as much as we could for the forgiveness of his sin. After which he closed his eyes and fell silent. My gaze was drawn upwards again. There was nothing to be seen, but I winked at the space anyway.

After the service I discovered van Drunen amongst the mourners. He was very perturbed. I told him he need not blame himself. I said the same to the van Moocks, repeatedly. I even requested the delegate from the ministry to convey this message from me to his superior and also to King Willem III, whose absence from the ceremony surprised me. But I did not warm to Dominee Molenkamp. As I was leaving church he grasped my hand, although I had not extended it.

The next day I addressed a forthright appeal to the minister of Colonies to secure me a position in the Dutch East Indies. I thought that would put some distance between me and my grief, another advantage being that I was not a complete stranger to the tropical environment.

I was received by the state councillor. He did not look kindly on my application, for he was still adamant that it was my duty to return to the Gold Coast. He listed the sums of money that I had cost the Dutch State during the past thirteen years, and enquired how I intended to repay the debt. When I replied that I regarded Holland as my fatherland and that I dearly wished to make myself useful as a citizen thereof, he laughed scornfully.

“I have been otherwise informed,” he said haughtily, but refused to name sources or facts. Perhaps, had I questioned him further in a tactful manner, I might have discovered what sort of game was being played with me, but I lost my self-control. An argument ensued, which ended in my being shown the door after a stern reprimand. After this nothing happened for some time. I had requested an audience with my old friend, King Willem III, but this was not granted. I then wrote him a letter, telling him of my meeting with the state councillor, and asked whether he knew of any allegations against my person. I concluded with declarations of my deepest loyalty, but there was no reply.

After several weeks I received notice from the ministry of Colonies that I was to be offered a post as public servant extraordinary in the East Indies. I was pleased that my bid had been successful, but then the remuneration caught my eye: seventy guilders monthly. By way of comparison, my monthly allowance in Freiberg had been two hundred guilders, and that was just for board and lodging. Had I accepted the post to the Gold Coast I would have earned five thousand guilders annually. What was there left for me to say? I was desperate to leave.

I embarked on 7 May. It was a happy coincidence that my old friends Linse and Lebret were among the passengers of the
Sarah
Lydia
. We were still in the roads when I sent word to the engraver in Freiberg that I approved of my portrait and that he should send copies to all my friends. I instructed him to add the following legend:
Friendship is unrelated to station, distance, nation, religion,
morals and customs; it links the cold north to the blazing south; without
friendship the world would be a wilderness.

Not long after we had sailed from São Tomé, it was announced that Neptune had come on board to baptize those crossing the Equator for the first time—an old tradition. The crew was in excellent spirits and came to fetch us. The mighty sea-god sat on a throne made of kegs. He was swathed in yellow and green, and wore a crown of rope. The youngest sailors were brushed with tar and shaved with a whalebone, after which the poor lads were baptized by being lowered over the port side on the end of a rope. Passengers were less harshly treated. Linse was in good form and volunteered to be the first. His shirt was removed. His hands were tied behind his back. He was forced to kneel in front of a water-butt containing several treacle-covered fruits. When he had finally succeeded in catching one of them in his jaws, the sticky paste was scoured off his face with a brush. After this Lebret demurred. They brushed him so hard that his cheeks almost bled.

When it was my turn I walked towards the water-butt in a daze. I took off my shirt and held out my hands for them to be tied. Then I spotted Kwame among the jeering seamen. He was leaping up and down, jeering with the others. He was actually encouraging them to make me undergo the ritual. When they pushed me down on my knees I found the strength to resist. I demanded in a loud voice to be set free. I declared that I had no desire to participate in customs that were not my own. I was accused of cowardice, but my mind was made up. I bought their silence with bottles of gin, one for every three men. For the rest of the day I was eyed with contempt, but personally I was pleased with my performance.

The
Sarah Lydia
’s passage was slow. After some damage to the ship during a storm off the coast of Angola, we disembarked in Lüderitz, in South-West Africa. The blazing south had turned bitterly cold, but we were given a friendly welcome by the German population. A beer feast was held around a bonfire in the desert, at which a brass band played. I ate with relish the roasted sausages—my favourite food as a student in Germany—and danced to some folk tunes that I had learned from the children in the park at Freiberg. The German colonists were delighted at my knowledge of their simple dances. Everyone wanted to shake my hand as if I were an old friend, for they had heard of me. Only five weeks previously the small farming community had been visited by three explorers. One of them had been presented at court in Weimar, and I knew who they were. The Mayor told me that all three, two men and a woman, had been devoured not far from there. That night I returned to the ship, and did not go ashore again as long as we were detained in Lüderitz.

The southern winter was so cold that it was impossible to spend any length of time on deck. Linse, Lebret and I came together in the dining room for a few hours each evening. We diverted ourselves with port and chess, but the bad weather and general tedium sent each of us to our bunks before ten. I spent long days and nights in the solitude of my small cabin. I tried to read, but had difficulty concentrating. When I was alone I was unable to suppress the doubts that kept rising in my mind.

Once again I had left everything behind. Once again I faced the necessity of conforming to a new culture, of understanding and winning the hearts of a new people. How would people react to my appearance? Once again the life I knew was over, while I had no idea what the future might bring. The first time this happened Kwame and I had run away to hide in a cardboard temple. Now there was no one to run with and nowhere to hide. I huddled under my blankets so as not to see what lay ahead.

I remember a curious experience I had once, in a Tirolean country inn where Professor Cotta and I had taken rooms for the night. While we were having dinner a chambermaid came in and whispered in the professor’s ear. Would it be necessary, she asked, to provide clean linen for my bed, seeing as the sheets would turn quite black after I had used them? The professor dismissed the wench with a wave of the hand. We laughed merrily at this incident, but that night I was overcome with disaffection for mankind. I felt as if I had spent my life wading through a morass without making any progress at all. Such sentiments, when I feel utterly defeated, are those that I fear most. As I grow older they become more frequent and also more lasting.

Once we had rounded the Cape and were heading towards Madagascar the weather improved. However, the Indian Ocean is treacherous, and we were hit by two violent storms, which we weathered only thanks to our finding timely refuge in the port of Saint Denis on the French island of Réunion. There I encountered an uncommon paradise, with people of diverse origins living together in perfect harmony. Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists and Catholics celebrated their feast days together. They borrowed each other’s saints, and the French bishop even presided over the heathen ceremony in which offerings of fruit, rum and tobacco are made to the spirits of the dead. The slaves, who had been granted their freedom two years earlier, seemed to bear no grudges, nor indeed had there been any bloodshed. They worked their own plots of land alongside Chinese and Creoles. Of the two volcanoes on the island one was permanently active. At regular intervals, and quite innocuously, it erupted to supply the island with a thick layer of fertile soil, like an extra blessing, as though God thought, “Yes, this experiment deserves fostering.” The climate was so diverse that all the world’s plants could grow there. Vanilla was the mainstay of the economy. I found relief from despondency in the sweetness of this thriving island.

We had been sailing again for two days when—believe it or not—a young deer was caught in the fishing nets. It was still alive, and once it had recovered from its fright it scampered over the deck. There are no deer on Réunion, and we were on the high seas. No one could explain the miracle. I rejoiced inwardly at this example of vitality undaunted by its surroundings.

On 7 September we entered the Sunda Strait at last, sailing past the island of the great Krakatau volcano. As the wind was unfavourable, we dropped anchor at one of the lesser isles. We were approached at once by native canoes laden with goods for sale. The first vendor to climb on board sold bananas. He was accompanied by a parrot and two children, the younger of which went round selling nuts. The man had long hair and wore a wide skirt. His upper body was bare. He spoke with Linse and Lebret, with the ship’s captain and all the Dutchmen he could find. But he did not offer me his wares until I had beckoned him expressly. He seemed most surprised that I had a purse of my own and enough money to pay him. He then sent his little boy to me, and I bought a handful of nuts from him.

By morning the wind had risen. Within sight of the roadstead of Batavia, we passed a string of small offshore islands named after Dutch towns: Middelburg, Amsterdam, Haarlem, Rotterdam. As we neared the capital we found ourselves in a forest of masts and multicoloured vessels of diverse provenance, among which we were obliged to drop anchor. Our voyage had lasted four months, but formalities and medical examinations kept us on board yet another day. The harbour made an impression of bleakness and disrepair and the downtown area beyond seemed to consist exclusively of warehouses and office buildings. Farther afield the green hills contrasted darkly with the sky. The air was thick with smoke. The panorama lacked the rosy-streaked azure and the soft contours of the islands of the archipelago we had passed on our way to Java.

Gustav of Saxe-Weimar had kindly made arrangements for me to lodge with his father Duke Bernhard, who was serving as commander of the East Indian Army in Batavia—much to my relief, I may add. I sent him word of my arrival at once. Linse, Lebret and I also announced our presence in the local newspaper. Linse expected our initiative to be rewarded with a stream of invitations from all the families with nubile daughters. We drank to that, not once but again and again.

On 9 September, suffering from splitting headaches, we clambered into the landing vessel, in which we were rowed down a long and evil-smelling waterway, the Ciliwung or Great River. The banks were lined with canal houses in the Dutch style, which stood empty and dilapidated. When we reached the beacon we went ashore. The ground was muddy and we found it difficult to walk. Lebret was overcome with nausea when we came upon a stall selling roasted fish. He threw up behind the stall and asked the vendor for some water, but the man did not respond. Our luggage was inspected by the customs officer, after which we were left to our own devices. There we stood, amid the jostling crowd by the gatehouse. Our aching heads reeled from the blinding sunlight and ear-splitting noise. Fortunately an officer stepped forward to greet us; he said the duke was expecting me in the old town hall, from where he would escort me to his residence in the uptown area. A few coolies went ahead carrying our luggage. I caught a glimpse of my suitcase swinging at the end of a bamboo pole just as it vanished into a throng of Chinese.

The duke gave us a warm welcome. We drank tea in a room on the first floor, which was reserved for his office. He enquired after our voyage and our plans for the immediate future. Lebret and Linse planned to hunt for lodgings, and Bernhard of Saxe gave them the address of a German coffee planter’s widow, who would be happy to take them in until they had found something more permanent. He made me promise to look upon his home as my own.